Ending the Endgame
by Joodiff
Summary: Linda Cummings is dead... but Grace is still caught in a nightmare she can't seem to escape. Rated T for language etc. B/G.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** _Bit of a departure for me, posting something in installments. Let's see how it pans out, shall we? ;)_

* * *

**Ending the Endgame**

by Joodiff

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**ONE**

Laughter, harsh and cruel. That's what wakes her, and she struggles for several moments to come to terms with the fact that the mocking sound belongs only in her nightmares. She is cold, bitterly cold to the very core of her bones, yet she is sweating in panic, her heart is racing and the muscles in her stomach are tightly knotted in fear. Something infinitely warmer, infinitely more real than the contemptuous laughter starts to reach in through the fright and confusion. Him. It is him. He is there, right behind her, and for a moment she desperately needs the ferocious heat of his body.

"Christ, Grace," he says, his voice deep and low in the darkness as he quickly eases closer to her. "You're absolutely freezing. Come on, relax. It's all right. I'm here. You're all right. Relax."

The same voice that laughs endlessly in her nightmares echoes spitefully in her mind…_ "Pathetic old woman…"_

Grace starts to shiver; can't stop herself. She feels Boyd move, feels the strong flex of muscle as he reaches over her, and a moment later the bedside light comes on, pushing the frightening darkness back into just the deeper, more insistent shadows at the edges of the room. He's looking down at her, concern written across his face, showing starkly in his dark eyes. Tousled, unshaven and weary, and infinitely more precious to her in that moment than anything else has ever been, or ever could be.

He asks quietly, "Linda…?"

She nods. Linda. It is always Linda.

He watches her for a moment, seems to come to a decision. "This is fucking ridiculous. You can't go on like this, Grace. You're going back to the doctor if I have to drag you there myself."

"Boyd," she protests, but there is no strength in her voice. She sounds just as old and weak as she feels, and she knows it.

He says nothing, just settles back down and gathers her gently against him. He is warm and smooth and solid… but even though his presence is incredibly reassuring, at her insistence the bedside light stays on all night.

-oOo-

"I'm a psychologist," Grace says pointedly, watching him from the bed as he shrugs into a clean shirt. He's still a little damp from the shower, and as he moves she detects a subtle, humid hint of soap and aftershave in the air.

"And that means what, exactly?" Boyd asks, methodically fastening buttons. "That you're somehow immune to the effects of trauma? That I must be imagining the fact that you're waking up night after night completely bloody terrified?"

"_He will never love you, Grace,"_ Linda's voice taunts, somewhere deep in her mind's vulnerable shadows.

But he _does_. He must do. Why else would he stay with her night after night when she is too weak and too exhausted to do anything except curl up pitifully against him in a desperate search for warmth and comfort?

Pushing the thought aside, Grace counters, "That's not what I'm saying."

"I'm very glad to hear it. Ring the doctor and make an appointment, because if you don't, I will."

He means it. She knows he does. Can see it in the stubborn tilt of his chin, the look of challenge in his eyes. It's infuriating; it's wonderful and strangely humbling. It's not something she's used to, this overt, fierce and completely single-minded devotion to her, but it's something she thinks she could grow very accustomed to. She sighs, says, "All right. I'll mention it at the hospital tomorrow."

"Not good enough," Boyd tells her impatiently, fiddling with his cufflinks. "Do you really want me to treat you like a child? Make the appointment, Grace."

"Peter…"

"No," he says. "You can 'Peter' me all you like, but you're going back to the doctor."

This is not a battle she has any chance of winning. He's simply too stubborn and it seems he cares far too much. Grace sighs, tries to lighten the mood with, "Are you going to drag me there in handcuffs?"

Slyly, Boyd raises a dark eyebrow at her. "Would you like me to?"

She pretends to think about it. "Maybe not…"

-oOo-

Grace is barely two steps into the squad room when Boyd spots her, and his reaction is a gruff and very predictable, "Oh, for God's sake… Go home, Grace."

She's slept most of the morning away, managed to eat a light lunch and now she has every intention of settling behind her desk for a few hours, if only to work on the back-log of reports steadily accumulating in her in-tray. Her colleagues are seated around the room's central tables, and four pairs of eyes are regarding her steadily. It's Eve who says, "Grace. How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad," Grace tells her truthfully. "A little tired, but I'm okay."

Eve starts to reply, but she's interrupted by a growl of displeasure from Boyd. "_Don't_ encourage her. Grace – "

"Spence," Grace says, cutting across him. "I need the files for the Ashford case. Can you…?"

"One move from you DI Jordan," Boyd raps out immediately, "and I'll have your balls as well as your warrant card. Do I make myself clear?"

Grace shakes her head as Spencer looks from her to his superior and back, plainly not sure what he should do. Common-sense seems to prevail and he says sullenly, "Sir."

Acutely aware of the mounting tension in the room, Grace says calmly, "Boyd. A quiet word, please."

He's already on his feet, already pacing towards his office. Over his shoulder he snaps, "The rest of you, get on with some bloody work. Playtime's over."

-oOo-

"We had an agreement," she says sharply once the office door is closed behind them.

"I'm well aware of that," Boyd replies irritably. "I'm also well aware of the fact that you could barely drag yourself out of bed this morning."

"I'm feeling better."

He looks incredulous. "And it naturally follows that you should therefore come to work? Jesus Christ, Grace. Are you deliberately trying to wind me up?"

She meets his glare steadily. "No, I'm trying to fulfil the terms of my contract."

Unsurprisingly, the decibel level of Boyd's voice rises immediately. "_Screw_ the bloody terms of your contract. And don't even try to tell me I don't have the authority to order you straight out of the building because you know damned well that I do."

Grace scowls at him, demands, "What gives you the right to throw your weight around?"

After a moment, at considerably less volume and with admirable restraint, he replies, "I'm not even going to bother to answer that. Go home, Grace."

"And do what? Watch daytime television? Take up knitting? I want to work; I'm here to work. We agreed – "

"I know what we agreed," Boyd says, suddenly sounding very tired. He leans against the edge of his desk, runs his fingers through his hair as he watches her. He asks, "Did you call the doctor?"

For a moment Grace considers lying to him, but immediately dismisses the idea. She shakes her head. "No. Boyd, all the doctor will do is give me some sleeping tablets and put me on the waiting list for a few sessions of counselling."

"Which you feel is obviously way beneath you to accept?"

The acute observation stings; more so because it is uncomfortably close to the truth. Biting back the impulse to lash straight back at him, Grace sighs. "There's nothing a counsellor can tell me that I don't already know."

"That's not the point, though, is it? It's not about identifying the problem, it's about resolving it."

Grace stares at him in surprise. She can't quite prevent a tiny, ironic smile. "So he does listen and learn, after all."

Boyd glares at her again. "God, you're infuriating when you want to be."

"Says the man who has elevated being infuriating into an art form."

His response is unexpected. "Just… come here, will you?"

Perhaps because the request is so uncharacteristic, or perhaps because she realises how much she needs it, Grace does, stepping into his embrace quite naturally, resting her head against his shoulder. Neither of them move. Eventually she quietly she asks, "Are we being watched?"

"Oh yes," he says, a real trace of amusement in his voice. "Most definitely. Furtively, but most definitely."

"There goes your reputation."

"Don't worry, I'll go and put the fear of God in them all later."

Smiling against him, she asks, "Therapeutic shouting, Boyd?"

"Works for me," he says with a nonchalant shrug. "Grace…"

"All right, all right," she says, already resigned to the fact. "I'll book an appointment."

-oOo-

It is much, much later, it is dark, and Grace is in bed, curled on her side trying to warm up. It seems she is almost perpetually cold these days, and she assumes the harsh cocktail of drugs she is still taking on a daily basis is mainly responsible. The bedroom door opens with a slight creak and Boyd pads barefoot into the room bearing a glass of water and the small plastic container that she knows far too well. More tablets. Grace isn't quite sure when he appointed himself primary care-giver and chief administrator of medication, but he takes both roles seriously. Far too seriously, sometimes. He is gruff, but he is kind, and she grudgingly finds that her affection for him usually outweighs her irritation.

He paces towards the bed, tall and broad-shouldered, a solidly reliable vision in traditional flannel pyjamas – her choice of night attire, most definitely not his. The immediately discarded pyjama jacket, however, remains unworn in a drawer somewhere, but that's absolutely fine by Grace. She approves of compromise. As he hands over the tablets, he says, "Spence has taken the meeting with the CPS off my hands. I'll come with you to the hospital."

"There's no need," Grace tells him firmly. "It's just routine."

"You don't want me there?"

She senses a touch of uncharacteristic insecurity beneath the composure, immediately feels the need to reassure him. "It's not that. I just worry about you taking so much time off work. It isn't passing unnoticed, Boyd."

"Bollocks. I've worked my arse off for the CCU for years and everyone knows it. If they really want to challenge me over taking a few hours off here and there, good luck to them."

Something has changed in him. Whether he knows it himself, Grace isn't sure, but she sees it very clearly. It's a change that started with his son's death and has been evolving ever since. He's a quieter man now, a man with more perspective. True, Peter Boyd is still one of the most volatile people she knows, and true, he still works obsessively given half a chance, but the man who abruptly made the decision to march straight into her private life and her bed is not the same man she used to fight tooth and claw with at every possible opportunity. He's calmer, steadier, less given to bristling fiercely at anything he perceives as a personal affront. He has, in fact, mellowed. Just a little.

Grace says, "I don't want you to give them an excuse – "

" – to cut me down? They've been trying to do that for years. It's water off a duck's back, Grace."

"Mm," she says, unconvinced. To Boyd, though, it almost certainly is. He can be incredibly stoical when it suits him. She swallows down the tablets and puts the water aside as he joins her under the covers. As ever, she welcomes the intense physical warmth of him, and as he settles she kisses his chest. "Thank you."

"Oh God," he says. "Please; I can't cope with any more sentimentality today."

Grace smiles to herself, turns in his arms to adopt her favourite position, shoulders against his chest, back against the curve of his stomach. It's gentle, it's intimate. It's the way she hopes things will remain between them. What makes her smile again – infinitely more mischievously – is the instinctive response of his body to her proximity. She arches back a little, doesn't even try to pretend the motion isn't quite deliberate.

"Stop it," he grumbles. "Put the light out and go to sleep."

"I'm not feeling very tired."

"Well, _I_ am. Some of us had to be at work for eight o'clock."

Linda's voice murmurs, _"He will never love you …"_

Linda's voice is wrong. He does. Taciturn and bad-tempered he may very well often be, but he loves her, and in her heart Grace knows it. Every night he sleeps at her side, holds her when she needs to be held, warms her when she is chilled to the bone and somehow exercises an iron-willed self-discipline that's truly remarkable. Softly, a little shyly, she asks, "Do you want to…?"

"Stupid bloody question," Boyd says irritably. "Put the damned light out, will you?"

She does, and in the darkness she listens to the sound of him breathing, deep and regular. Grace is not a puritan; there are times when she wants him so keenly that the frustration almost consumes her – but the combination of exhaustion, nausea and stress inevitably takes its toll. Tragically, she can count on the fingers of just one hand the amount of times they have made love since he started spending most of his nights not at his own house but at hers. Grimly, she holds on tightly to the promise of a better, happier future. For a few moments more she lies still and quiet, but in a testament to how well she actually feels on that particular night, her idle thoughts slowly become more speculative, begin to take on a real edge of arousal.

She kisses his bare shoulder. Says into the darkness, "Think you could manage a quick fumble…?"

The answer is a derisive snort. "The day I can't will be the day I throw myself off Waterloo Bridge, Grace."

"_You're a pathetic old woman…" _Linda's voice sneers, but she defiantly tells herself that she isn't. Not at all.

There are no gymnastics, no attempts to prove anything. Neither of them actually moves very much; they whisper and they caress and eventually he simply eases gently into her from behind and they stay as they are, quietly entangled, her back firmly against his smooth chest as he slowly rocks his hips, and it's blessedly good for both of them.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The big, brash motivational poster on the wall is too cheap and too spurious, and Grace detests it on sight. She does not want to look at dolphins swimming in a brilliant Caribbean sea as she tries to explain the dark phenomenon of Linda Cummings to a woman almost young enough to be her granddaughter. Nor does she want to be perpetually smiled at in a bright, encouraging sort of way. It occurs to her that perhaps some of Boyd's sceptical impatience is rubbing off on her.

Alison Cameron, recently-qualified NHS counsellor, smiles yet again and asks, "But despite it being a relatively recent relationship, your partner is supportive?"

"We've been friends for years," Grace counters, not sure why it feels important to clarify the fact. "Yes, he's supportive."

"Good. That's very important. Often, in this sort of…"

Grace isn't listening. Suddenly the dolphins are a far more attractive proposition. Alison talks, and Grace occasionally nods, but her mind is firmly elsewhere. As predicted, the appointment is a complete waste of time.

"_Look at you, you're a pathetic old woman…"_

Abruptly, she interrupts the younger woman's earnest discourse with, "Can I remind you that I'm employed as a full-time forensic psychologist, Miss Cameron. My partner is a senior police officer. We've both seen and experienced things you couldn't possibly comprehend."

The younger woman's face registers surprise at her sharp tone. "I do understand that, Ms. Foley – "

"Doctor," Grace corrects her. "It's _Doctor_ Foley."

"Doctor," Alison confirms hastily. "Please, don't think I'm trying to patronise you – "

Grace gathers together the straps of her bag and stands up. "Thank you for seeing me, but I think we should end the session now."

Afterwards, she will call it her 'Peter Boyd Moment'. Except that he would almost certainly have slammed the door on the way out. No doubt loudly and with considerable force.

-oOo-

Grace wakes in a blind panic, and she lashes out wildly with a clenched fist, terrified by both the darkness and the taunting sound of Linda's voice. She makes contact – hard – with something warm and firm, and in response there is a muffled yelp of pain and surprise and a brief outburst of startled cursing. Still firmly caught by the nightmare, Grace shrinks away from the sound, shivering violently, but when the light comes on it is Boyd, not Linda, who is staring at her in bewildered shock. Involuntarily, she cowers, and the answering look on his face immediately tells her that her reaction hurts him a lot more than the inadvertent blow.

She stares at him, almost as stunned as he is. "Peter…"

He blinks, raises the back of his hand to his split lip. There isn't much blood, but it's welling darkly, silently accusing her. Sounding a little shaky, he says, "Jesus, Grace… I never knew you had such a good right hook."

She is mortified. Reaching out, she says, "I'm so, so sorry… Here, let me look…"

"Leave it, it's fine," Boyd says, brusquely fending her off, but he looks suddenly wary. An uncomfortable silence starts to stretch between them, and her guilt worsens as the first bead of blood finally spills from his lip and slowly rolls down into his neat goatee beard. He sits up properly, mutters petulantly, "Fuck's sake…"

Grace watches without a word as he levers himself up from the bed and heads straight for the bedroom door. She doesn't doubt that he'll be back once he's surveyed the damage, but she suspects that when he does return she will be able to smell whiskey on his breath. It's a slow thing, a gradual thing, but it's quite possible that everything may be starting to go terribly wrong between them. And all because of a dead woman.

-oOo-

In as much as she feels reasonably well, it starts as a relatively good day. Her treatment regime has gradually become less harsh, and all the news from the hospital is good, but there are other things that are concerning Grace far more. Boyd's faintly battered appearance is a hot topic of conversation in the CCU's squad room. No-one is quite brave enough to tease him to his face, but behind his back increasingly wild and hilarious speculation into the cause of the obvious split lip and bruised cheekbone is rife. Grace, normally so tolerant, normally so composed, finds herself despising her colleagues for their banter, their easy-going mockery. She removes herself to a quiet corner and stays there, projecting her silent disapproval as strongly as she can.

It is Eve who eventually wanders over and settles next to her. Eve, who is both incredibly perceptive and extremely sharp-eyed. She asks, "What's the matter?"

"Some people need to learn when enough is enough," Grace says shortly.

Eve shrugs. "It's harmless, Grace. You know that."

"Ripping the piss out of him?"

"Oh, come on. It's just a bit of fun. So what happened? One too many glasses of Scotch?"

"No," Grace says curtly. She absolutely knows she shouldn't say more, but the anger twisting inside her is real and visceral, and it seems to want to speak for her. Coldly, she says, "I hit him."

"You…?" Eve couldn't look more startled. "How… Why…?"

"I was having a bad dream," Grace tells her, gazing steadily at the other woman. "A nightmare. I lashed out. Caught him by accident in the middle of the night. Well? Is that a juicy enough piece of gossip for you all to have a bloody good laugh about?"

Eve's expression settles quickly into studied neutrality. "Maybe I should just go back to the lab…"

"Maybe you should."

"Grace…"

"I've got work to do," Grace says, turning away. She ignores the sudden surge of self-loathing that joins the twisting anger. She doesn't look up as Eve gets to her feet and silently walks away.

-oOo-

"This hasn't come from the CCU," Harrison says, evidently wanting to forestall any misunderstandings. He makes a throat-clearing noise. "In fact, it hasn't come from anyone at the Met. But there are rumours, Grace. We're just worried that you're not coping with… everything."

Alan Harrison is a Home Office civil servant, an old friend and a thoroughly decent man. Grace waits for him to continue, and when he doesn't, she says, "So you thought you'd invite me to lunch for a little chat?"

"Something like that," Harrison admits, briefly glancing around the restaurant as if to assess whether their conversation is in any danger of being overheard. He looks back at her. "I've spoken to Boyd, and he seems to be of the opinion that the decision is best left to you. No-one's going to force your hand, Grace, but perhaps you should consider taking a break from your work at the CCU. We can find a temporary replacement to cover medical leave."

"We've had this conversation at least twice before," Grace says calmly, making a great show of studying the menu. "And as I understand it, it's up to me to negotiate directly with DSI Boyd regarding the hours specified in my contract."

"Of course," Harrison replies with a shrug. "Everyone's well-aware that the profiler's post at the CCU has never strictly been a nine-to-five job. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about proper medical leave, not just reduced hours."

"I don't need or want medical leave. And as far as I'm aware, DSI Boyd is perfectly happy to – "

"Grace," Harrison says gently. "How many years have you and I known each other, hmm? Shall we just cut to the chase?"

Leaning back in her chair, Grace sighs. "Why not? Go on then."

"I don't think you're doing yourself any favours. Personally or professionally. More, I don't think you're doing Boyd or the CCU any favours, either. The whole Linda Cummings debacle has been very… damaging. It's time to back down, Grace. I could arrange for a sabbatical if you don't want medical leave, but I think you need to look at the bigger picture. Take some time, get yourself fighting fit, then think about whether or not you really want to go back."

"Am I imagining it, or am I reading the words 'early retirement' between the lines?"

He says, "That's not an option that's been discussed."

"'Discussed'?" Grace queries. "I'm being _discussed_, am I? With whom? Boyd?"

Harrison looks faintly uncomfortable as he admits, "Amongst others – and I've already told you that his view is that it's entirely your decision."

"Are you telling me to fall on my sword, Alan?" Grace asks him quietly.

"Nothing so draconian. Just… let me find a temporary replacement for the CCU while you… get yourself sorted."

"'Sorted'?"

He holds her gaze steadily. "You know what I mean."

"Are you forcing this on me?"

Harrison shakes his head. "Absolutely not."

"Good," Grace says. "Shall we order?"

-oOo-

She feels as if her life is slowly but surely unravelling.

Linda's voice whispers, _"Look at you, you're a pathetic old woman…"_

The squad room is quiet. No sign of Kat or Spencer. Eve is presumably in the lab. Boyd is in his office, enthroned behind his desk, lord of all he surveys. Hawkish and handsome. He looks up at the sound of footsteps, and as his gaze settles on her, he smiles. He has an extraordinary smile, gentle but potentially heart-stopping in its power. Grace recognises its tenderness, its quiet intimacy, and for the first time that day she feels that perhaps the world isn't coming to an end after all. Almost mesmerised, she walks towards that smile, needing to be soothed by its compassion.

"How was lunch?" Boyd asks as she steps into his office.

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"That bad?"

"That bad," Grace confirms, sitting down.

Boyd shakes his head. "He's a canny bastard, that Harrison. Every time I speak to him I end up wondering if I've agreed to something important without actually realising it."

"I know the feeling," Grace says dryly. "Why didn't you tell me you'd spoken to him?"

"Because the conniving old bugger didn't call me until after you'd left the office."

She nods, accepting his explanation. "He wants me to take a sabbatical."

"So I gather."

Grace sighs and glances around his office. So very familiar, so very comforting in its own way. Hardly cosy, of course, but inextricably linked to so many shared memories. Looking back at Boyd, she says, "What do you think?"

"I think it's your choice," he tells her quietly.

"Not a helpful answer, Boyd. Professionally, what do you think?"

He leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. "As commander of the unit, I think that as long as you are fulfilling your obligations and as long as you feel able to continue to do so, you're far more use to me than some temporary stand-in."

"And personally?"

Impassive, he says, "I can't answer that."

"Can't or _won't_, Boyd?"

His gaze doesn't waver. "What do you want me to say, Grace? That I'm worried bloody sick about you? That it frightens me, the hold Linda's still got on you? That it's driving me crazy knowing I have no clue how to help you?"

The intensity of the answer surprises her. He looks so tired, she thinks. So very, very tired. Tired and unhappy; the worry and strain showing quite clearly on his face. She doesn't think about it, she just stands up and walks round his desk, stands behind him, puts her arms around his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

"Don't start that again."

Grace glances at the clock on the wall. Mid-afternoon on a biting cold December Friday. Aware that she is trespassing on very dangerous ground, she asks, "Can we go home?"

Boyd looks round at her sharply. "Not feeling well?"

"It's not that. I'm just… really not having a good day," she admits. When there's no immediate reply, she releases her hold on him, steps back quickly and says, "Forget it. Silly idea. I'll see you later."

But Boyd snags her wrist, dark eyes unfathomable. With his free hand he reaches for the phone on his desk, picks up the receiver and hits one of the speed dial numbers, continues to watch her until whoever he's calling responds. His voice is perfectly calm and level. "Spence? Leave Kat to finish up, and come and take over from me here… Yeah. Thanks."

Grace stares at him as he replaces the handset.

Boyd shrugs. "Done."

Not caring how much he may grumble about the liberty she is about to take, Grace leans in, kisses his forehead gently and murmurs, "Thank you."

-oOo-

Thirty-six hours later and it's bitterly cold out on Hampstead Heath, but it is a genuine cold; a natural, normal seasonal cold, not the debilitating chill of illness. The frost hasn't lifted in the shade of the trees, but Grace doesn't mind. She finds the biting cold exhilarating, likes the sting of it on her face while the rest of her is bundled up in thick winter clothes. It must be very cold indeed, she thinks, because even Boyd has finally succumbed to the lure of a heavy wool sweater – though his long coat remains defiantly unbuttoned. They unconsciously walk in step, but even that is a compromise since his long-legged stride far outstrips comfortable walking speed for her, so he dawdles a little while she walks faster than usual.

Sunday morning; church bells ringing in the distance, the looming spectre of Christmas becoming only too real. Hoar frost and thick clothes. Normality. Grace wonders what the few people they pass must think of them. If they think of them at all. She supposes they simply look like a very ordinary late middle-aged married couple, Boyd with his hands deep in his coat pockets, she with her arm hooked through his, gloved hand possessively resting on his forearm. Ordinary people out for an ordinary walk. They stop on the brow of a hill, look out over the city. Tower blocks and the Swiss Re Tower – the Gherkin – the dome of St. Paul's, all spread out before them.

She says, "Janet's given me the name of someone. A private specialist in PTSD."

Boyd does not look at her. "I see."

"I'm going to make an appointment. It won't be cheap, but…"

"Please don't tell me you're actually worried about the cost."

"No, of course not."

Ever-laconic, he says, "Good."

"It won't be easy."

A slight pause. "So? When was _anything_ ever easy for either of us?"

Staring at the view, she says softly, "I want her out of my head, Boyd."

"I know."

Grace continues to gaze at the city, wondering how many people are living in the massed ranks of buildings sprawling before them. How many lives, how many stories. She wonders about all the things that are happening, hidden from view. Births, deaths; people living, loving and laughing. People committing terrible, unimaginable crimes. People dealing with pain and trauma; people drinking, eating, making love. She says, "You were her last great obsession."

"I don't want to talk about it, Grace."

"Maybe _I_ do. Maybe I _need_ to."

"Isn't that rather the point of seeing someone?" Boyd asks irritably.

Grace sighs, knowing full well that he is being deliberately obtuse. He doesn't want to talk about Linda Cummings, not to her, not to anyone else; not now, not ever. Linda Cummings is a closed chapter to Boyd, neatly filed away somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind along with all the countless other things he purposely stores well away from casual inspection. It's how he copes, how he manages to keep everything that still hurts him so very much from becoming completely overwhelming. Trying to force him into discussing any of it with her will not end well.

But discussing it may very well be what they desperately need to do. Impasse.

-oOo-

_cont…_


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

In this office there are no cheap motivational posters and no dolphins. Instead, there are cream walls, wooden dado rails, good quality furniture and tastefully framed art prints. Like Grace, Henry Barrett is a psychologist. He is stocky, greying, close to the end of his fifties, and he wears small, rimless glasses that give him a distinctly academic air. The grey eyes behind the lenses are mild, but they are perceptive. His voice is calm and surprisingly deep, and he has a lingering trace of a West Country accent. Pleasantly reassuring.

"You're angry with him," Barrett says. It is not a question.

Grace considers the quiet statement. Her eventual response is just as composed. "Not consciously. Not that I'm aware of."

"You advised him against becoming involved."

She nods. "Yes. But I knew it was pointless."

"Do you blame Peter for your abduction?"

"No."

Back and forth they go. It's tiring, and very little of it is new to Grace, but she listens and she answers and she does her best to explain. Barrett offers her coffee – one of the benefits of a private consultation – and they take a short, natural break. He does not intimidate or antagonise her, and she thinks that even if she is learning nothing new, he is helping her organise her thoughts and emotions into logical patterns that can be carefully analysed later.

Barrett says, "He was willing to die for you. 'Trade his life for yours' was the phrase you used."

"Yes."

"How does that make you feel?"

On and on, until she realises that he has quietly backed away, that he is now talking in far more general terms. She recognises it for what it is – the winding-down at the end of their first session.

"Do you think that you can help me?" Grace finally asks, knowing how incredibly naïve the question will sound.

"Of course," Barrett says, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "You know I can. Grace, your partner's right – the fact that you're a psychologist yourself has no bearing whatsoever on the trauma you've been through, or on your response to it. A dentist might know exactly _why_ his tooth aches, but one certainly wouldn't expect him to perform dental surgery on himself to cure it. No, he'd go and see another dentist; extremely reluctantly, I would imagine."

Which actually makes more sense to Grace than anything she's yet been told.

-oOo-

It's mid-evening several weeks later, and Boyd is lounging barefoot on the sofa, reading glasses on, and as Grace returns quietly to her living room she's fairly certain it won't be long before he smugly announces that he's finished her daily paper's cryptic crossword. He has that sort of mind – able to follow the kind of esoteric, convoluted loops that defy normal deductive reasoning. And he is, of course, both extremely tenacious and highly intelligent – the latter being a quality she very definitely appreciates. The carefully-constructed image of the unimaginative, plodding investigator is a deliberate façade, artfully designed to disarm both suspects and unwary colleagues alike, but Grace… Grace never makes the mistake of underestimating him. To do so would be very dangerous indeed.

"Henry says it's important that we talk," Grace says without preamble, as she settles into her favourite chair. "About Linda."

Boyd looks at her over the top of his glasses. "'Henry'?"

"Barrett."

He glowers, expression heavy and sullen. "I know who you mean, Grace."

It's not the first sharp gibe regarding her fellow psychologist, and she doubts it will be the last. It's childish of him, to say the least. Childish and unhelpful. Irritably, Grace says, "Please. Can we do without the macho posturing, just for once?"

"Meaning?"

She sighs. The thought of another bitter round of petty squabbling is not an appealing one. Forcing patience she says, "He's my therapist, Boyd. The one _you_ wanted me to see. You don't have to bristle every time I mention his name."

The retort is quick and sharp. "And God forbid that we should get through a whole conversation _without_ his name being mentioned."

"Oh, grow up," Grace tells him harshly.

The chilly silence that immediately descends between them is very telling indeed.

-oOo-

They go to bed under a grudging flag of truce, but in such an emotive arena it doesn't take very long for hostilities to resume. As they bite and snap and snipe at each other Grace wearily realises she isn't even sure anymore which of them is actually at fault. She tries to calm the situation and inevitably says entirely the wrong thing. Boyd bristles again, and they lie in the dark, not touching. Eventually she takes a calming breath, says, "Look, I know it's difficult for you, Peter, but – "

"For God's sake," he interrupts. "I know you enjoy treating me like a child, Grace, but guess what? I'm a grown man. Oh, and despite that fact I'm actually quite capable of thinking about more than just sex."

"I thought you said this wasn't about sex?" she challenges.

"It's not about bloody sex. Now you're twisting my words."

Stubbornly, she says, "No. You said – "

"For fuck's sake, stop it. Just stop it, Grace. If all I wanted was to get laid…" Boyd's voice trails away into the kind of loaded silence that clearly suggests he's well-aware that he's suddenly heading for a whole lot of trouble.

Grace stares up at the ceiling; it looks pale and ghostly in the darkened room. She says, "If all you wanted was to get laid, you'd go elsewhere…?"

He turns onto his side to face her, his features indistinct in the gloom. "I didn't say that. Christ, I didn't say that. What sort of a man do you think I am?"

"I don't know," Grace says quietly. She turns her back on him. "Sometimes I just don't know…"

-oOo-

"You're angry with him," Barrett says again. "He was prepared to die for you – but not to kill for you."

Stubbornly, Grace shakes her head. "No. How could I possibly be angry with him for that?"

"Morality has little to do with our inherent instinct to survive, Grace. Peter chose to draw a line in the sand and you're angry with him for it."

"No."

Barrett waits for a moment before he says, "You describe him as an alpha male."

She nods warily, not sure where the change in direction is leading. "He is. Very much so."

"But when it came to the crunch, your alpha male failed you."

Anger flickers inside her. "He didn't fail me, he saved my life."

"By accident rather than design. He was offered a straight choice – and he failed you."

"No," Grace says obstinately. "Linda wanted to prove to him that he was just as capable of cold-blooded murder as she was; she put him in an impossible situation."

"She emasculated him. Metaphorically speaking."

"No. Emasculating him was the very _last_ thing she wanted to do," Grace contradicts. Picking carefully through her thoughts, she slowly continues, "She had convinced herself that they shared some kind of twisted destiny and she wanted him to be exactly like her – a killer. In fact, she _wanted_ him, full stop."

Barrett studies her calmly. "And how does that make you feel?"

-oOo-

"I'm sorry," Grace says, and she genuinely is. Jumpy as a cat, Boyd watches her warily from the other side of his office. When he says nothing, she continues, "If you don't want to do this anymore…"

"Don't be bloody stupid," he says, predictably brusque. "Surely you know me better than that?"

Exhausted after her hour-long encounter with Barrett, Grace slumps onto the couch that's been part of Boyd's office furniture for as long as she can remember. "We've hurt each other so much in the past… I really don't want to go through it again."

"And still she treats me like a child," he says with a deliberate sigh. "Grace, can you please at least _try_ to accept that I'm not about to run for the hills just because we're not exactly seeing eye-to-eye at the moment?"

Startled, she says, "Hen… Barrett touched on that today. He says I have to learn to trust you."

Boyd folds his arms across his broad chest, raises his chin a fraction. "Well, he's right, isn't he?"

Grace says quietly, "I _do_ trust you."

He shakes his head, suddenly very wise. "No. No, you don't. Not at all. But that's not my fault, Grace. That's Linda pouring poison into your ear coupled with your own ridiculous insecurities."

She stares at him, astonished by his perception. "What makes you say that?"

"What did she say to you?" Boyd asks, avoiding the question completely. "What did Linda say to you to make you doubt me so very much?"

Grace looks at the floor, her mind racing. Eventually, she says, "It doesn't matter."

Plainly exasperated, Boyd growls, "Of course it matters!"

"_He will never love you, Grace,"_ Linda's voice whispers. _"Look at you, you're a pathetic old woman; a sad, deluded old woman pining for a man who will never love you…"_

Still looking at the floor, Grace says, "She wanted you, Boyd."

"Somehow I'm not at all flattered by that," he tells her wryly. "Grace – "

A restrained tap on the door interrupts the painful conversation. Kat appears. "Sorry. Sir, David Norton's lawyer is asking to see you..."

-oOo-

Spencer's voice, quiet and restrained. "I'm just telling you what I heard, sir."

Boyd's voice, deeper, infinitely less patient. "That bloody woman wants to pay more attention to what's going on right under her nose at the Yard and less attention to petty gossip."

Grace freezes. She is out of sight, but not out of earshot. Eavesdropping is hardly worthy of her, she knows that, but it's pure instinct that holds her immobile as she listens to the unfolding conversation.

Spencer again. "She'll have your head on a plate given half a chance, Boyd."

"Not going to happen, trust me."

"I just think you need to be a bit more… discreet. For all our sakes."

Boyd's voice is thick with contempt. "Fucking _discreet…_? You've been reading too many bloody memos from HR, Spence. Whose side are you on?"

"It's not a question of sides."

"Isn't it? If I go down, this unit goes down with me, remember that. They won't even consider appointing a new commander in the current fiscal and political climate, so keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut. Do you understand me?"

"I'm trying to tell you to be careful, that's all. This thing with Grace – "

"You're skating on very thin ice, DI Jordan. Do you _really_ want to butt heads with me over this?"

Spencer's tone of voice is immeasurably surly. "No, sir."

"Is the right answer. Now fuck off and get some bloody work done."

An alpha male, Grace thinks; just as she told Barrett. But she is worried. Very worried.

-oOo-

Quietly, Barrett asks, "Do you think he's with you out of a misplaced sense of loyalty?"

"No," Grace says, looking past him to the featureless cream wall.

"Pity, then?"

Tired almost beyond endurance, she shakes her head. "No."

"But it troubles you, doesn't it? The timing? He finds out that you're unwell, and suddenly he makes a commitment to you."

She shakes her head, says stubbornly, "I've told you before, it wasn't like that."

-oOo-

"Come to bed," Grace says softly, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

He glances round at her, gives her a slight smile. "You go up. I want to get this finished. I won't be long."

For a moment she regards the official paperwork spread out across her dining table. She doesn't resent the work he brings home – it's better by far than waiting on her own for him to return from yet another late night at the office – but she wonders if he really needs to take on so much himself. Conversations about delegation tend to lead to angry words, however, so she sensibly keeps the thought to herself. She waits a few deliberate moments, and then says, "Peter. Come to bed."

Boyd looks up at her again, and it amuses her to see the very obvious indecision in his expression. Quite plainly he is trying to decide if she's really implying what he thinks she's implying. What he _hopes_ she's implying. She looks back at him, smiling slightly, and when that doesn't seem to be quite enough, she moves the hand on his shoulder, lets her fingers trace slowly and gently up the side of his neck. His expression changes again, becomes cautiously optimistic, and she nearly laughs aloud. Fundamentally, he is a very ordinary, very red-blooded male.

Paperwork suddenly forgotten, he shifts his chair round, snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her onto his lap. She rests her forehead against his, says quietly, "You really have no idea how much I love you, do you?"

She thinks he will dissemble, thinks he will fall back on wry humour. She does not expect him to answer, "I'm getting there, Grace. I'm getting there."

His unexpected response emboldens her. "This is it, then? This is really us? A joint future?"

"I think so," he says quietly. "Don't you?"

Grace smiles again. "Come to bed, Peter."

-oOo-

"_Pathetic old woman,"_ Linda's voice hisses contemptuously in her ear. Grace freezes. Instantly and completely, her body turning to a block of ice beneath his. The contrast is sharp. Boyd is hot and heavy, his back and shoulders slick with sweat as he moves rhythmically inside her. Eyes closed, head back, it's obvious he doesn't see her expression change as unexpected nausea rises from the pit of her stomach. Suddenly Grace detests the oppressive weight of him, the animal heat of him. The ice holding her immobile fractures abruptly and she instinctively starts to struggle desperately, simultaneously trying to push him away and squirm free.

She can't bear it, any of it. The feel of his solid weight on her makes her cringe, the intensely masculine smell of him makes her retch. She twists and fights and scratches, no longer even vaguely cognisant of where she is – or of who he is. There's just fear and panic and nausea and the primitive instinct to get away from the threat he suddenly represents. Grace doesn't hear his voice, doesn't see the appalled look in his eyes; isn't aware of him pulling away and then trying to gather her back against him.

Stinging pain snaps through her, extraordinarily shocking.

But it works.

She starts to remember who and where and why, and as reality steadies around her she starts to understand that he – he who has always been so incredibly gentle with her – has back-handed her. Hard.

Her cheek feels as if it's on fire and she unconsciously raises shaking fingers to it, her mind refusing to process what has happened.

"Grace…?" Boyd says, his voice thick with a crazy mix of anger, apprehension and compassion.

"You hit me," she whispers. Statement rather than accusation.

"_He will never love you, Grace,"_ Linda gloats in her head.

He is staring at her in blank shock. "Jesus _Christ_, Grace – what the _fuck_ was that all about? One minute everything's fine, the next…"

"You're bleeding," she says stupidly. There are scratches on his chest, raw and bloody.

Boyd looks down at himself for a moment, then slowly looks up at her again. The pain she sees in his eyes has nothing at all to do with physical injury. It takes him several moments to speak, and when he does, there's a distant, hollow sound to his voice that frightens her. "She's destroying you, Grace. She's fucking _destroying_ you… and I don't think I can bear to watch it anymore."

"Peter…"

But suddenly he's rolling off the bed up onto his feet, already picking up his clothes. He says nothing, doesn't make eye contact with her. Grace realises she is shivering. The room is warm, but she's shivering.

"You let her get into your head," he says abruptly as he shrugs into his shirt. "You let her in, and now she's destroying you. Destroying _us_."

"Don't do this. Please don't walk away."

"This has become toxic, Grace," he says, quiet but incredibly strained. "Dangerous. Can't you see that? Whatever it was, whatever it might have been doesn't matter anymore."

"Don't say that. Please don't say that."

His voice is low, tight with just barely-controlled emotion. "I can't help you. I was stupid enough to think I could, but I can't."

"Boyd – "

"I'm sorry," he says, but he doesn't hesitate at the bedroom door.

And then Grace is alone.

Not quite alone.

"_He will never love you,"_ Linda repeats smugly as the sound of the front door slamming echoes up the stairs.

-oOo-

_tbc…_


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"_Do_ it, Grace," Linda instructs harshly. She's sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and her hair is thickly matted with blood from the fall that killed her. She smiles savagely. "You want to hurt him, so do it. Take the pills."

"I can't," Grace says, her throat so constricted she can barely croak the words out. "Please, Linda, I can't…"

"Why not?" her nemesis questions aggressively. "What have you got left to live for, Grace? You're a sad, lonely old woman who's all alone in the world. Where are your friends? Where are your step-kids? Even Peter's gone, hasn't he? There's no-one left who cares about you."

Through gritted teeth, Grace rasps out, "You're… not… real..."

"Poor Grace. Poor _pathetic_ old Grace. So alone. So ill and weak. So _vulnerable_."

"Stop it," she pleads desperately. "Stop it. You're not real, you're _dead_. I saw your body."

Linda laughs unpleasantly and then says in a gently sinister and eerily coaxing tone, "Go on, take the pills, Grace. Go ahead – it's easy. After all, don't you want to hurt him just as much as he's hurt you?"

"_Please_ – "

"Look around you," Linda goads. "Where is he. Grace? Where's your beloved Peter now? Already tucked up safe and sound in someone else's bed? Face it, a man like that was never going to hang around for long. What on earth made you think he could ever want _you_? Look at yourself. Go on, _look_ at yourself."

Mechanically, Grace turns and stares into the bathroom mirror. She sees herself – old and careworn with a darkening bruise marring her cheek – but she does not see Linda. The room behind her is completely empty. Startled, she spins round. Linda's still sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her face now half-crushed and blood-streaked – a frozen, sneering deathmask of utter contempt.

Grace doesn't know if she starts screaming immediately or not. All she knows is that the locked bathroom door suddenly explodes inwards, the flimsy bolt shearing under the weight of an almighty kick. Then Linda's gone and it is only Boyd who's with her in the small, cold bathroom.

-oOo-

"I have absolutely no recollection of calling him," Grace admits quietly. Hardly aware of doing so, she is clenching and unclenching her fist around a very damp, very crumpled white handkerchief.

"Hmm," Barrett murmurs. He studies her calmly for a moment or two. "Dissociative amnesia. Not uncommon, Grace, you know that." A deliberate pause. "I'd like to suggest something to you, if I may."

Grace frowns at his sombre tone, and nods slightly. "Go on."

"I'd like you to consider making an appointment with a colleague of mine – Doctor Webster. She's a psychiatrist; an extremely good one, I might add."

Easily able to read between the lines, Grace says, "I don't need medication, Henry; nor do I need diagnosing. We both know that talking therapies are considered one of the most effective treatments for PTSD."

He nods earnestly. "Indeed, but surely you wouldn't argue the therapeutic value of medication where psychotic symptoms are present? And half of the people diagnosed with PTSD _will_ experience psychotic symptoms. Of those who do, around twenty percent will experience _exactly_ the kind of hallucinations you've described."

She knows he's right – of course she does – but she stubbornly shakes her head. "Anti-psychotics aren't the answer."

"Not on their own, I agree," he says gently. "Grace, I strongly suggest you think very carefully about this. Command hallucinations are not only distressing, they're also potentially extremely dangerous. Can you _honestly_ say that you wouldn't have swallowed those pills if Peter hadn't come back when he did?"

"No," she admits wearily. "No, I can't. You know I can't. But I'm _not_ suicidal, Henry."

His reply is calm, reassuring. "I believe you. But I also know how powerful such hallucinations can be. And so do _you_."

Grace does. She's interviewed more than one convicted killer who staunchly claimed to have heard voices ordering them to carry out their brutal crimes. And unlike Boyd she does not believe that such claims are always fraudulent. Slowly, reluctantly, she eventually nods. "All right. You'll refer me?"

"I will," Barrett tells her. "It's the right decision, Grace. Trust me."

-oOo-

When she finally steps back out into the chilly morning air, Grace is more than a little surprised to find that Boyd is waiting for her. His big dark Audi is boldly and defiantly parked on the clearly-marked double-yellow lines outside the discreet private clinic, and he is leaning against the bonnet, deliberately nonchalant with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets and his collar turned up. Despite the determinedly casual stance, he looks grim, strained. She doesn't fancy the chances of any over-zealous traffic warden who tries to issue him with a parking fine. Walking quietly towards him, she asks, "I thought we agreed I'd get a cab into work? Checking up on me?"

Boyd straightens up. "No."

He looks tired, she thinks. Worn. Old. Less sharply, she says, "I'm pleased to hear it. So, why _are_ you here?"

"I was on my way back from seeing Cameron and I thought you might like a lift."

She snorts disbelievingly. "Very gallant, Boyd. Try again."

He surveys her expressionlessly for a moment or two before shrugging slightly. "I was a complete prick last night."

"Ah, ha. You're still feeling guilty."

The response is immediate and incredulous. "Jesus, Grace, of _course_ I'm still feeling guilty. Have you looked in the mirror today?"

Involuntarily, she flinches, the memory of Linda's provoking words too clear in her mind. _"Look at yourself…"_

Boyd seems to flinch, too, as if he finds her reaction simply too painful to bear. She tries to find something, _anything_, to say to him, but before she can, he continues earnestly, "I was scared, Grace. If you want the truth, I was fucking _terrified_. You went completely crazy – and I _still_ have absolutely no idea what I did..."

"Nothing," she says, well-aware of the hollow, empty note in her voice. "You did nothing, Peter; it was all Linda."

He sighs, the harsh struggle for patience more than obvious. "Linda's dead, Grace."

She scowls at him. "Don't patronise me. I _know_ she's dead. I saw her body, too, remember?"

"Yeah, and _I_ saw her laid out on the mortuary trolley. I saw them screw the bloody lid down on her coffin and I saw her cremated. She's dead. Gone."

"She was _there_, Boyd. Right there in my bathroom."

"You know she wasn't."

She lowers her head a fraction. "Yes, I know she wasn't… but I _saw_ her. _You_ were scared? Do you have any idea of how scared _I_ was? How scared I _still_ am? It's not just Linda, it's everything; I just don't know how much more I can cope with."

Boyd stares silently at her. She fears, just for a moment, that he will turn, that he will get into his car and drive off, but he doesn't. Instead, he visibly squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. He says, "A joint future, remember? Look, I was scared; I didn't know what the fuck was going on and I bolted. You want me to admit it? I'm admitting it. I'm not proud of myself. But I was already on my way back when you called me, Grace. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to _you_, but it sure as hell means something to _me_. Surprise, surprise, I made a mistake. But whether you believe it or not, I'm not going _anywhere_."

Almost against her will, Grace does believe it. She's known him far too long not to know when he is absolutely sincere. She looks down at the pavement for a moment. Without looking up, she says, "Henry wants me to see a colleague of his. A psychiatrist."

Boyd does not challenge her over the use of Barrett's first name. "Because…?"

"A psychologist can't prescribe medication, you know that."

"Medication…?"

"Anti-psychotics," she clarifies, finally looking up at him again.

His puzzled frown darkens. "Shit."

"Still so sure you want to hang around?" Grace challenges.

Boyd takes his hands out of his pockets. Reaches out to her and draws her into an embrace that is gentle but feels strong and reassuringly secure. His voice is quiet and just a little rueful as he says, "What do _you_ think? You're the one who never stops complaining about how bloody stubborn I can be."

-oOo-

They are bickering gently when they arrive back at the CCU's basement headquarters – though more for the ironic sense of normality it provides than anything else. The original cause is an old case from years before, the unorthodox handling of which they still vehemently disagree on whenever something happens to bring the matter back into the mind of one or the other, but, as is usual for them, they have determinedly argued their way along so many various tangents that when they finally reach the unit's squad room together, their conversation has become so obscure and so mired in old irritations that there's absolutely no chance of an outsider being able to comprehend what they are actually squabbling over. And the unexpected presence of an outsider is exactly what awaits them. An outsider neither of them are pleased to see – the sharp, ambitious and recently promoted Maureen Smith.

"_Deputy Assistant Commissioner_ Smith," Boyd says in greeting, heavily emphasising the woman's new title.

Her response is merely a glacial, "Peter."

"Social call?" he asks pointedly.

"Hardly," she retorts, her tone very dry. Ignoring everyone else present, she stands up. "Now you're here, shall we go into your office?"

Boyd says nothing, merely nods and ushers the senior officer towards the open door. Behind their backs, Grace glances across at Spencer, raising her eyebrows a fraction at him. He shakes his head slightly, the gesture clearly implying he's as perplexed by the unforeseen visitation as she is. She waits until the office door is closed before she asks quietly, "What's she doing here?"

"No idea," Spencer tells her soberly. "She turned up twenty minutes ago, and when she found out he wasn't here she said she'd wait – didn't want me to call him to let him know she was here, either."

"Did she ask where he was?"

"Yeah. Told her he'd gone to interview Cameron again."

"Good."

"Pretty sure she checked his desk diary. She was certainly poking around in there, according to Kat."

"Where _is_ Kat?"

"In the lab with Eve. I told her to stay out of the way."

Grace pats his shoulder briefly. "Thanks, Spence."

He grunts, makes a great show of going back to staring at his computer screen, but as Grace sits down and starts to shuffle through the mail addressed to her, he says quietly, "Talk to him, Grace. God knows, he won't listen to anyone else. Make him understand he can't afford to underestimate her."

"Trust me, Boyd's got the measure of our new DAC."

"I hope so, because word is she's absolutely determined to make him toe the line."

"And he will," Grace reassures him, though she's not entirely sure she believes her own words. "Boyd knows exactly how to play the game, you know that. Just when she thinks she's given him enough rope to hang himself with, he'll tie her up in knots with it. Spence, I know there are still some unresolved… issues… between the two of you, but for all our sakes, try to have a bit of faith in him, hm?"

Spencer regards her in silence for a moment before saying, "Keep my head down and get on with it?"

"For now," she tells him. "I know things are… difficult… at the moment – for all of us – but we'll get through it. We always do, don't we?"

Spencer folds his arms across his chest. His answer is an unenthusiastic, "Yeah; I guess we do."

-oOo-

_tbc…_


End file.
